


Light

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Gentle Sex, M/M, Mild Angst, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:02:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All day, Slade treats Oliver like he's nothing. At night, Slade couldn't be more different.</p><p>For the prompt at comment-fic on lj: Oliver/Slade, All you think of lately is getting underneath me</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light

Slade makes it clear: Oliver is a useless weapon, an inadequate tool in the battles that were surely coming. He is only training Oliver so he can be slightly less worthless, like sharpening a butter knife when what he really needs is a sword.

But if Oliver's useless, then he's a liability, and Oliver knows that wouldn't be good news. So he puts up with Slade, with all the "training" that doesn't seem to be making him any stronger but is making him a whole lot better at getting knocked on his ass. 

Slade mutters insults at him, orders him to his chores, loudly contemplates the hopelessness of turning Oliver into a man. Oliver would be dead without Slade, but all day, he is just a thing that hasn't proven its usefulness.

At night, it's different. 

When Oliver is so tired he can barely move, when he falls into his spot on the floor, Slade settles next to him.

Slade's fingertips glide across Oliver's arms, up Oliver's bare stomach. It is soft, despite whose hands they are. It is a question.

This is the only thing Slade would allow Oliver to say no to.

Oliver doesn't want to say no. 

It is always gentle, for some reason, and Oliver doesn't dare ask why. Slade is skillful, graceful even, gently moving Oliver's body where he wants it, accepting Oliver's hands and lips on his body. He kisses Oliver's jawline, his neck, his shoulders (never the mouth). He opens Oliver up slowly, painlessly, fills him up with a soft moan. His arm reaches around to grip Oliver's dick, embracing him, encompassing him. In those moments, as the moonlight sneaked in to lay stripes of light on their sweat-glistened bodies, with Slade inside of him, his hands on him, Slade's lips on his shoulder and arm around his waist, Oliver almost forgot where he was. In that one moment, Oliver could almost remember what it was like to be human. 

Sometimes, when they were wrestling during the day - when Slade was putting Oliver in hold after hold - the friction got to him. Slade's body, rubbing against his, turned him on. Mostly against his will. For just a second, when Slade noticed, he would look down at Oliver struggling underneath him with something like desire, something that looked almost like need. And Oliver would wish in that second that the skies would darken, that night would fall on them so they could take shelter from the island, from the men who they were during the day.

Instead, Slade would stand up, roll his eyes, and say, "What the hell is wrong with you? This is war and all you do is think with your dick."

Oliver would always stay silent. He would will himself to calm down and then slowly stand up, struggling against the glare of the sun in his eyes.


End file.
